


who knows where this road may go

by Zannolin



Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: Alternate Universe - Anastasia (1997 & Broadway) Fusion, Amnesia, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Injury, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Other, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Trauma, based off of thechannelwithoutaname's anastasia art, i've been working on this monster for way too long so i might as well start posting, this one's for wolfy!!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-06
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:01:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27410017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zannolin/pseuds/Zannolin
Summary: It has been ten years since the old regime of Hyperion City fell, taking with it the Empress Sarah Steel and one of her sons. The remaining heir, Benzaiten Steel, resides in exile as rumors swirl under the new Theia party of the princess's survival. One Peter Ransom plans to use those fairytales to his advantage — and he's found just the lady to do it.
Relationships: Benzaiten Steel & Juno Steel, Buddy Aurinko/Vespa Ilkay, Mag & Peter Nureyev, Peter Nureyev/Juno Steel, Rita & Juno Steel
Comments: 8
Kudos: 45





	1. last dance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AWalkingParadox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AWalkingParadox/gifts).



> Okay all right I admit I shouldn't actually be posting chapter one because I'm still working on chapter two and lord knows I have a horrible track record with finishing multichapters, but I swear I'm going crazy and had to do something, so have the first section of my Anastasia AU, inspired by [Wolfy's](https://thechannelwithoutaname.tumblr.com/) Anastasia AU fanart! 
> 
> I've been working on this for so long, please let it be worth it.

_Twins are made when a child has a soul too great for one small body to contain,_ Sarah Steel always told her sons. _And that’s why I have two little monsters!_

And though Sarah Steel told a great many lies and half-truths, enough to bind up in a book and carry next to your heart like a prayer (or maybe a curse), this was not one of them. They are two halves of the same whole, Benzaiten and Andromeda Steel, and they grow up practically inseparable. They have the same face, the same smile, the same taste in food. Even though Andromeda is prone to confrontation and Benzaiten loves to dance, even when Benten grows taller by three inches and Andromeda gets his first broken nose so you can tell them apart, they are still one soul combined, always hanging off the other’s shoulder, never quite apart.

All this to say that there is nothing quite so painful as watching your twin leave. It is a pain that tears at the deepest, most secret part of your soul. Andromeda Steel feels it now as he squeezes his eyes shut and buries his nose in Benzaiten’s shoulder, as if by holding him so tight he can’t slip away, he can ensure that no harm will ever come to him.

Benzaiten hugs him just as desperately, but years of court lessons and training prevent either from showing their true sorrow in so much as a single tear or a trembling breath.

“Why do you have to go?” Andromeda whispers, words all but swallowed by the material of his twin’s cloak.

They both know, of course — the answer lies in the layers of bandages wrapped round Benzaiten’s chest, tight as the hitch in both twins’ breathing; in the way he nearly died scant weeks prior — but it is so much deeper than a rhetorical question.

_Why did this have to happen?_ is one question lurking beneath the surface. _Why wasn’t it me? Why can’t I go with you?_

Perhaps they know the answers to those as well.

Benten steps back, careful of his ribs, and ruffles Andromeda’s hair affectionately. “It’ll be okay, Super Steel,” he says, words quiet enough that the gathered court officials, including the physician and guard making up his entourage, can’t overhear. “The Cerberus Province isn’t far, and it won’t be for long. Just a few months, until I’m healed and Ma is…better.”

They both know that’s a lie, but neither says anything to the contrary. It’s easier not to think of the Empress of late.

“I know, I just…I’ll miss you,” Andromeda says, averting his eyes. It’s hard on him, Benten knows, and not just because half his soul is leaving.

It’s because, deep down, they both know Andromeda wishes _he_ was the one who was leaving Hyperion City, instead of Benten. But that’s something neither of them is quite ready to talk about, so it hangs heavy between them, a shared weight no one can put to words.

“Maybe you can come visit,” Benten says, nudging at his twin in an uncourtly display of affection.

“Sure,” Andromeda says. Neither of them is convinced, Benten knows.

On impulse, he reaches up and unclasps the chain from around his neck, taking Andromeda’s hand and pressing his pendant into it.

“Here, you can keep this until I get back. That way, you won’t forget about your poor, injured twin,” he jokes.

“But this is—”

“The key to my music box, yeah, I know, you’re absolutely brilliant for figuring that out, good on you!”

Andromeda regards him with a single raised eyebrow. It says a lot, that eyebrow. Mostly about _I would very much like to sock you in the arm right now, but unfortunately half the court is here to see you off and I have to perform for them like a dancing monkey._ Benten likes to think there’s a tiny bit of laughter in there, though. He’s just that funny sometimes.

“Just…if you listen to it every night, it’ll be like when we were kids, and…I don’t know.”

He trails off, uncertain how to put it to words without sounding, as Andromeda would so affectionately put it, _a sap._ Or maybe a sucker, if he’s feeling particularly cynical. He always was the more pragmatic of the two, preferring to sneak off into the slums and streets to roughhouse with the street urchins instead of take dancing or music lessons. It used to infuriate their teachers to no end.

“I…know what you mean,” his twin says, and Benten snaps back to himself. Andromeda closes his fingers tightly around the pendant so not even the barest flash of gold and emeralds can escape his grip, holds it tight as though wishing it could somehow keep Benten from leaving. “I’ll listen to your dumb music box, just…be safe, okay? Come back to me.”

“Only if you promise to be here when I get back,” Benten jokes, and this time Andromeda really does sock him in the arm, much to the mortification of the assembled nobles. They hug one last time, and Prince Benzaiten Steel is helped aboard the carriage that will take him to a recovery clinic in the Cerberus Province, far from Hyperion City, Polaris, and his mother.

No one could have known that scant weeks later, Polaris will be thrown into chaos when a revolution overthrow the crown, killing Empress Sarah Steel and much of her court — including Princess Andromeda.

* * *

(This is what it feels like to lose half of your heart, your soul, your _world:_

Benten is left in exile, mourning the loss of his family, stranded far from his home and unable to return for the danger. He drifts aimlessly from room to room and hums snatches of a broken lullaby, the space by his side eternally, terribly, painfully _empty._

But the cruelest thing of all is that he has not yet lost hope that somehow, in some improbable, impossible way, his twin will return from the grave and find his way back to Benten’s side.

Ten years pass, rumors still swirl, and Benzaiten feels hope sit heavy as a stone in his chest, never quite filling the hollow left that fateful night that the old regime of Hyperion City fell.)


	2. the biggest con in history

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Haven’t you heard? There’s a rumor in Hyperion City, and Peter Ransom is about to make it dance to his tune.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLOOOOO penumbra fandom! it's been a while! like I told the tma fandom, I've been a bit caught up with the block men (please watch the dream smp war oh my god it's so good I'm living on found family dynamics these days) but I missed this AU a lot, and I miss penumbra every single day, so I finally took a minute to finish up this chapter. I'm not sure how long updates will take because I struggle a lot with writing multichapters and I have a lot of projects plus my job and my streaming (I stream part time! come watch me draw, write, or sing on twitch, if you want, it'd be cool! twitch.tv/zannolin :0!!) but I promise I will really try with this one. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

The streets of Hyperion City are full to bursting with rumors, ripe and juicy, as ready for the picking as the threadbare pockets of the swelling crowd all around. Unlike those pockets, however, the swirling myths and legends are going to yield more substantial results for one Peter Ransom — at least, they will soon.

He passes through the crowd more naturally than a fish in water, smooth and efficient, fingers dipping into purses and pockets more out of instinct and pleasure than necessity. He shouldn’t take more than he needs, not from those poorer than himself, but Peter has been picking pockets for so long that it’s more instinctual than breathing. Might even be as essential as it, by now.

The frigid winter air slices through his nose and lungs, but he hardly feels the chill even through his patched coat, too preoccupied with his budding plan for Hyperion’s cruel winter morning to touch him. It’s a _good_ plan, too. Better than most of Mag’s. Well. Perhaps _better_ is not the word. _Possible,_ maybe?

Mag has always been one for grand, fantastical plans. Peter wouldn’t be the slightest bit surprised if he announced one of these days that he intends to overthrow the Theia party and reinstate the monarchy — with himself as ruler. Yes, Mag likes pomp and circumstance, grandeur and flash. It’s a holdover from his days masquerading as a count.

Peter, on the other hand, likes practicality. He focuses on one thing at a time, doesn’t let himself get dragged off course by dreams of what _might_ be. Dreams are for people who still have hope that things will get better without them ever having to do something. Dreams are not for doers. And that is why Peter intends to create a dream come true for all the people of Hyperion City, for all of Polaris.

Because when it comes down to it, dreams are just a distraction, and he intends to use that in his favor.

As he navigates the crowd, Peter’s eyes scan the ramshackle shops lining the boulevard, awnings tattered and worn, newspapers and rags bundled into the cracks to keep the chill at bay. He just needs something…something that looks authentic enough. Something to show the prince, in case they need another layer to the story.

He spots the music box resting among dented copper kettles and obviously fake tiaras in one of the market stalls. It’s covered in grime and slightly battered, and the golden sheen is nearly hidden under tarnish and dirt, but something about it calls to him. Before he realizes what he’s doing, he’s standing at the stall, running his fingers across the jeweled inlays and the twining engraving of the letter _S_ winding smooth as a river across the lid.

 _S for Steel?_ Peter wonders, running a nail under the edge of the lid, searching for a catch or a clasp of some kind. It won’t open at all — curious.

“Ah, the music box,” the stall owner says, peering over his mound of junk and shifting a clattering stack of scraps out of the way so he can properly direct the full force of his ubiquitous smile at Peter. Peter, suffice it to say, is not impressed.

“It’s genuine royal property,” he continues, spidery fingers grasping at the round box and pulling it from Peter’s grasp. “Authentic Steel.”

“Looks more like gold to me,” Peter responds lightly, cleaning out the dirt his examination of the box has lodged under his fingernails.

The shopkeeper snorts, but doesn’t respond, likely too worried about scaring off a potential customer to snipe. He turns the box in his hands, holding it almost reverently. Whether or not the item is truly authentic, it’s clear that the current owner certainly believes it to be so.

That, of course, poses a problem. He’ll try to drive a hard bargain when selling it.

True to form, when Peter inquires lazily as to the price, he lays a hand on his chest as though affronted.

“My dear boy,” he rasps, “did you not hear me when I said it is _genuine Steel?_ I could _never_ part with it!”

But _never,_ as Peter has found, is not a concept that truly exists in human reality. There is always some motivator, some leverage or temptation that will turn that adamant, unchanging _never_ into a _sometimes_ , then a _maybe_ , then a _yes_ before the mark realizes what has happened. And Peter is very, very good at finding that leverage.

“Two cans of beans, comrade?” he asks slyly, leaning an elbow against the stall’s rickety countertop. The hawker’s eyes flash, and the haggling begins.

Five minutes later, Peter is walking away with the box tucked securely in his coat pocket and the coins he handed the man just seconds ago disappearing back into his sleeve long before the shopkeeper will know what happened. He leaves him the beans, though. He’s not _entirely_ without morals.

He allows himself a small smile as he disappears seamlessly into the crowd once more.

He has Mag to appease, actors to meet, and the whole world to dupe. Haven’t you heard? There’s a rumor in Hyperion City, and Peter Ransom is about to make it dance to his tune.

* * *

Juno doesn’t mind the Theia spokespeople on their curbside pulpits. He doesn’t mind that they stand there all day and shout to the masses, despite how pointless it is — why do you need to preach to the people you already rule over? He might not give two shits about their _shining city_ and their _new home_ for everyone, but generally speaking, they don’t bother him, and he doesn’t bother them either.

He admittedly doesn’t care for the rallies like today’s, overcrowding the streets in a great wave of people that rolls up over both sidewalks and eddies aimlessly about the storefronts and shops lining the boulevard. The crowd and the flyers and other various sheafs of paper and odds and ends they bring make Juno’s life that much harder.

Provided, they _do_ uphold his livelihood, in part, because who needs a street sweeper if there’s nothing on the streets to sweep? That doesn’t mean that he has to like it, though.

He doesn’t like most things, if he’s being honest.

The rally had come, and stayed, and lingered, and finally — _finally_ — gone. Now the streets are nearly empty as dusk draws near and brings with it winter curfew, heralded by the lamplighters just beginning to emerge to do their nightly duty. Juno breaths out a cloud of frozen breath, stamps his feet against the chill, and swipes at another fallen flyer with the worn bristles of his broom.

It’s almost peaceful, which means the disaster that follows shouldn’t be unexpected at all, given how Juno’s life has gone up til this point. Or as much of it as he can remember, anyway.

One moment he’s sweeping up the detritus left in the aftermath of the Theia rally, the next, a loud _bang_ has echoed through the still, icy air and everything shatters like the silence, like Juno’s composure, like—

_—like the windows when the first shot rang out, shards flying and catching in his gown, at his gloves, slicing across the bridge of his nose. For a moment, nothing but shock, and then the pain, flaring as white hot as the blazes of the pistols. He can’t see, suddenly. Why can’t he see, why is everything dark, why why why WHY?_

Juno takes in a single, shuddering breath, and slowly his vision clears. He doesn’t know how long it has been, but it appears he’s fallen to his knees, crumpling in on himself with raw palms braced against the slush-covered cobblestones. The broom lies next to him, and he snatches it up, clasping the rough wooden handle like a lifeline on a stormy sea.

He thought he was past this. He thought he was stronger than this. But he isn’t and he’s _not_ and his teeth ache from clenching his jaw, a splinter is digging into his left palm, and his eye burns from both the cold and the tears he’s trying so desperately to force back down.

“Young man, are you quite all right?” a gruff voice asks, and Juno _knows_ that voice from somewhere.

He looks up into blue eyes that are surprisingly unclouded despite the craggy face they are set in, and swallows hard.

Ramses O’Flaherty. Philanthropist, revolutionary, current mayor of Hyperion City and leader of the Theia party. The very voice of the revolution that reformed Hyperion — and all of Polaris with it — a decade ago.

“It was just a truck backfiring, my boy, nothing to fear,” Ramses continues as though Juno had answered him instead of staring with eye blown wide and jaw practically hanging open.

He stoops to clasp Juno’s shoulder with a firm grip, and an understanding smile walks over half his face. “You don’t have to worry about such things anymore. Those barbaric times are behind us. No more brother against brother, neighbor against neighbor…mother against son.”

At this, something heavy pulls at the edges of his voice, and that smile droops, just a bit.

Juno still says nothing, grips his broom tighter. He can think of a dozen witty responses, all clamoring in his brain for the forefront of his attention and the use of his mouth, but it is as though the bitter Hyperion winter has frozen his lips shut.

Ramses frowns a bit, giving Juno a thorough once-over, and something shudders and hisses within him.

It is dangerous to be known. Especially in Hyperion City. You’re better off as just another face in the crowd. If people know your name, your face, they can track you. Things can catch up with you if you aren’t careful, and Juno has no idea the amount of things haunting his past that might reach forwards into his present at any given moment.

“You’re shaking, boy. There’s a tea shop, just here,” Ramses says, gesturing vaguely towards one of the warmly lit storefronts lining the way. His tone is open and friendly and Juno has never trusted anyone less. “Allow me to—”

“Thank you,” Juno manages to rasp out, pulling away from Ramses’ grasp and all but scrambling to his feet. He holds his broom so tightly he fears the handle might snap.

The old man’s eyebrows furrow, and some of the friendly light goes out of his eyes. “What’s your hurry?”

Juno swallows thickly. “I can’t afford to lose this job. They’re not exactly easy to come by.”

He doesn’t mean for it to sound accusatory, but really, in for a penny, in for a pound. The Theia party has promised countless times to bring more jobs, better economy, new homes for everyone so that _no one_ has to sleep on the streets, but have they done any of that in the last ten years since they overthrew the Empress? Hardly. Juno has spent enough nights on the streets himself to know.

He turns and hurries away, refusing to glance over his shoulder even as Ramses calls, “Should you change your mind, I’m here every day. You look as though you could use a good cup of tea.”

If he had, he would have seen the contemplative look Ramses O’Flaherty casts after him, one hand rubbing his chin as the other dips into his pocket to finger an antique pocket watch, still ticking despite its considerable age.

* * *

“Boss!” Rita greets him when he enters the rundown apartment they share after fumbling at the keys with numb fingers for nearly two full minutes.

“Not your boss,” Juno reminds her out of habit, knowing full well it won’t make a lick of difference.

“Boss,” Rita repeats, undeterred. She’s sitting at their rickety kitchen table, perched on the three-legged stool that wobbles which she likes because she can rock to and fro and Juno hates because he feels perpetually off-balance, and if that’s not an indicator of their relationship dynamic, Juno doesn’t know what is.

Juno grunts, leaning his broom in a corner and stripping off his lumpy hat and scarf. He keeps his coat on, though. The draft always manages to seep through every chink and crack, no matter how much of their hard-earned cash Juno forks over for heating and extra blankets. Rita is chipper as ever, though, and she pushes him a mug of steaming tea which he curls his lip at but picks up nonetheless, savoring the burn of warmth against his chilled palms and fingers.

“Ain’t ya gonna ask me what I’ve been waitin’ to tell ya?” Rita demands, eyes sparkling behind her glasses.

Juno sighs. His breath rebounds against the tea and gusts back over his face, prickling against the numbness of his cheeks. The events of earlier that evening weigh heavier on him than he wants to admit, and he’s still feeling off-kilter, as though _he’s_ the one sitting on their ramshackle stool, not Rita. He knows that if he’s not careful, he’ll get _angry,_ and Juno is, in all honesty, too tired to be angry right now.

“What is it, Rita.”

His tone is too flat for it to be a true question, but Rita doesn’t seem to mind. She never does.

“I figured out where to go for those travel papers!” Rita proclaims proudly, grinning over the rim of her own mug, and something snares behind Juno’s sternum.

Travel papers. Their ticket out of Hyperion City, out of _Polaris,_ away from the hellscape this place has become over the past decade. Away from the squalor and the curfews and the shitty apartment that decays around them a little more each day.

Leaving Hyperion.

It’s something they’ve been planning for…God, has it really been years? Must be, because it’s taken so long to save up the money and make their plans, and to track down the elusive dealers of extremely difficult to acquire travel papers.

Juno ignores the apprehension that twists in his gut and sinks into their single chair opposite Rita, propping his elbows on the table.

“You found the dealers?”

Rita grins toothily. “Sure did, boss! Mag and Peter Ransom. They’s a pain and a half to find, but I finally tracked ‘em down, and it’s all thanks to Franny. You’re not gonna _believe_ how we did it. First, we…”

But Juno’s not listening anymore. He’s staring into the mug clasped between his hands, mind buzzing with questions and a kind of shocked static all at once. The whole time they’ve been working towards leaving, he’d never quite believed they’d actually succeed. More and more of the border was getting shut down with each year, and as relations with neighboring countries grew ever more strained, Juno had begun to wonder if Polaris could even make it another year without a second revolution.

He’d never expected he might actually get a chance to leave the only place he’s ever known. Now he’s not so sure he even wants to.

 _But Rita deserves that chance,_ he tells himself, and forces himself to take a sip of the tea. It burns his tongue.

He still has a splinter in his palm. Juno can feel it there, digging in, crawling under his skin like every doubt and second thought and worry that plagues him now. He’ll have to ask Rita to help him get it out later.

For now, he can live with a little pain. He sips his tea and listens to Rita’s nonstop chatter and tries desperately not to think about what tomorrow might bring.

* * *

“No,” Peter says flatly.

The woman before him stamps her foot, irritated. “Why not?”

“Well, madam,” he says, keeping his words as polite as he can manage, though exasperation and exhaustion clip at the edges, “there is, of course, the fact that you look _absolutely nothing_ like the Princess Andromeda.”

She opens her mouth to protest, but Peter pushes onwards, undeterred.

“But much more concerning to me is the fact that you cannot act at all, and you likely could not even if you were being held at gunpoint and asked to recite the most theatrically bland of Shakespeare’s sonnets. No, you won’t do at all, and I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

She gapes at him, mouth opening and closing not unlike a fish’s, but Peter has already steered her towards the door with a well-placed touch to her elbow and flashes her one last sharp-toothed smile before he slams the old French door behind her.

He watches through cracked and smudge-streaked glass panes as she stalks away from the old Steel palace and sighs.

“Honestly Pete, don’t you think you’re being just a _bit_ harsh?” asks Mag. A chair creaks somewhere behind him, followed by footsteps, and Peter can feel the older man draw up behind his right shoulder.

“First rule of thieving, Mag,” Peter says lightly. “Personal feelings have no place in a heist.”

Mag chuckles and claps a hand on Peter’s shoulder, and he can’t help but feel a bit of the tension the day has brought drain away.

Certainly, they have seen their fair share of failure today, but this is only the first day of interviews. They’ll find the right person, the right puppet to dance as they pull the strings, and they’ll be off to the Cerberus Province before they know it. Peter can almost taste the freedom it will bring, like honey and champagne on his lips.

“Was that our last one for the day?” Mag asks, and Peter is about to nod when he catches a distant echo of voices and footsteps, somewhere down one of the great arched halls leading to the ballroom where they’ve been hosting their candidates.

Both men go very, very still, and Peter’s hand twitches towards the knife concealed at his side.

“It’s right this way, Boss,” a high-pitched voice says, the echoes resolving into words as the unexpected visitors draw closer. “At least, I think it is. Franny said they’d be meetin’ in the ballroom, but this old palace is just so _big,_ I dunno how anyone ever found their way around. Ooh, d’you think they had to use maps? I bet everyone who lived here had their own map of the palace, yeah, and—”

“They didn’t have maps, Rita,” a second voice says, significantly more tired but sonorous and pleasing nonetheless, “and the ballroom is this way.”

The footsteps clatter to a stop at the top of the grand staircase at the head of the room, and Peter turns to find himself looking at one of the loveliest and most put-out ladies he has ever encountered.

In the late afternoon light that streams through the great age-speckled windows, he’s limned in wonder and gold leaf, like one of the royal portraits lining the palace’s many halls. He is every bit as regal, but unlike the portraits, this lady is not shrouded in cobwebs and memories best left to rot. He is very much alive, and his sharp eye is trained directly on Peter, looking down his scarred nose from where he stands atop the staircase.

“Are you Peter and Mag Ransom?” the lady asks, sounding much to suspicious for Peter’s usual liking.

He taps two fingers against Mag’s wrist behind his back and grins widely, making a dramatically sweeping bow with one arm.

“Peter Ransom, at your service. And you are…?”

“Juno,” the lady responds, making no move to descend the staircase. “And this is Rita.”

He gestures to the short woman who stands at his side, gazing about the ballroom with wide and wondering eyes.

Peter supposes that it _is_ quite something to behold, even under ten years’ worth of grime and forgotten splendors turned scavenging grounds turned abandoned shell. He’s been too focused on his plan and all the complex ways the many pieces of it must fall into place to pay much attention to the old Steel palace, but there’s something about seeing this Juno standing proudly amongst its ruins that makes him blink and look a little closer, envision the splendor of empires past.

They stand in silence for a moment, the four of them, and Peter wonders who will speak first. It’s a tense thing. Is breaking the silence a form of weakness, or of decisiveness? It depends on a hundred tiny things, all balanced like mobile. Everything must be perfect, or the balance will come crashing down, equilibrium unspooling into disaster. Peter has always thought of conversations as a chess game, but something about this here, this now, feels more like a high-stakes tightrope walk, and that intrigues him. Who is this lady who commands such attention with so few words and naught but patches on his coat and over one eye?

Finally, Juno speaks.

“They say you’re the man to see about travel papers, Peter Ransom.” Something about the way Juno says the name twists at Peter’s chest.

“We can’t tell ya who says that, though,” Rita pipes up, grinning brightly at Juno’s side. “It’s a _secret._ ”

Mag _hmphs_ at Peter’s shoulder, likely miffed at being overlooked, but Peter ignores him. First rule of thieving and all that.

He gives Juno a thorough onceover before turning and pacing back to the window, pretending to peer out at the patchy snow covering the cracked marble terrace and the scraggly lawns beyond. Really, he’s watching the pair carefully in their reflections on the glass.

“I suppose I might be,” Peter says airily. “It all depends on why you need them.”

Rita giggles like it’s the funniest thing in the world, and Peter allows a corner of his mouth to twitch upwards. There’s a way to talk to everyone, he knows, and it seems he’s found Rita’s.

Juno’s, though…that is proving to be difficult.

“We need ‘em to travel, obviously, Mistah Ransom,” Rita says.

He can see her smiling in the glass, but Juno meets his eyes in the reflection, and Peter knows he’s dealing with someone who has been underestimated one too many times. He won’t make that mistake himself.

“Any particular reason you want to leave our fine country?” he asks, turning to face them again. It’s pointless to pretend he was doing anything other than observing them in the first place.

“I don’t know,” says Juno, voice saturated in sarcasm more biting than the winter frosts. “Maybe because it’s a shithole?”

“Such language,” Mag tuts, but Peter gives him a look.

 _Don’t interrupt when I’m working,_ the look says. _First rule of thieving._

 _I’ve taught you too well,_ say Mag’s regretful eyes in return.

 _Yes, I suppose you have,_ Peter muses, and focuses his gaze and attentions wholly on Juno once again.

“Be that as it may, I don’t hand out travel papers to _just_ anyone. I’d like to know _why_ you deserve them. Go on, regale me.”

“What, you want some kind of sob story?” Juno snarls, clenching his fists. “You want me to pull up a chair and vomit up my tragic life so you can dissect it over tea and pass judgment on whether or not I deserve to get a better one? Who gave you the authority?”

The look on his scarred face can only be described as _morally outraged,_ and Peter finds it oddly compelling. He’s even more radiant when he’s worked up over, what, _principles,_ of all things? It’s fascinating. He wants to know more.

“No authority was given to me by anyone,” Peter shoots back, “other than the fact that in this life I was dealt a hand and I worked to play with it to get myself to the point where I have access to what people need, and _yes,_ I get to decide if I give it to them or not. We take power where we can get it nowadays, because if you can’t control the things that _matter,_ you might as well control everything else.”

“Oh, so the prospect of a safe, happy life, of escaping a place like this, _doesn’t matter?_ ” Juno spits, marching down the stairs now to stand toe to toe with him. He’s nearly a head shorter than Peter, but seems bigger, somehow, getting right up in Peter’s face and jabbing a finger at his chest. “Well I’m _so_ sorry to disappoint you, _Peter Ransom,_ but I can’t tell you my pitiful sob story because _I don’t fucking remember it._ ”

Peter blinks, letting that all sink in for a moment.

“I’m sorry?”

Juno draws back, folding his arms. “What, were you just not paying attention? I said I don’t _fucking_ remember anything, not before ten years ago, and I don’t intend to give you any more of my _tragic backstory_ just so you can decide if I fit your _good story_ criteria. Are you going to sell us travel papers or what?”

 _Or what_ indeed. Peter’s not sure what he expected from this lady and his friend, marching so unexpectedly into the middle of his best laid plans, but it certainly wasn’t _this._ He feels more off-kilter than he has in years, as though he’s raised his foot, expecting to find a step, and instead lurching forward on nothing but empty air. This…is most unusual.

He allows himself a moment to search Juno’s face, all angry lines and scarred plateaus, eyebrows furrowed above the patch over his right eye, yet noble nonetheless. There’s something almost familiar about him, something that tickles at the back of Peter’s mind.

Juno huffs, clearly annoyed. Perhaps he has been examining Peter’s face in return, and doesn’t like what he has found there.

(That particular thought tugs oddly at some part of Peter, somewhere he can’t quite identify, but he shoves it away for the moment and thinks harder.)

_Where have I seen you before?_

Because he _has,_ or he’s at least seen someone close enough that the resemblance is uncanny and snags at Peter’s mind.

Juno shakes his head. “Let’s go, Rita. He’s not going to help us.”

He takes a step back, directly into a beam of sunlight, and in that split-second of splendor, watching the gold outline Juno’s face like the brushstrokes of a royal painter, it clicks. Peter _knows._

“Wait!” he blurts, stepping forward to catch Juno’s wrist. Juno flinches — a suppressed one, barely more than a twitch, but a flinch nonetheless — and Peter immediately releases him, something akin to guilt flooding through his chest.

“Juno,” he says, more subdued. “Would you indulge me for just a moment?”

“Why should I?” Juno asks, suspicious, but Peter can see the curiosity in his eyes.

“Follow me.”

Peter sets off, climbing the grand staircase two steps at a time, leaving the others to trail behind him at varying speeds — both Juno and Rita double-booking it to keep up on their shorter legs, and Mag heaving a sigh before climbing at a significantly slower pace.

He leads them past ruined tapestries and pillaged sitting rooms, grand halls echoing with their lonesome footsteps and the ghosts of parties long-past. When he reaches the portrait hall, he slows, allowing the others to catch up.

Peter stops in front of one particular painting, almost as tall as he is, draped in a tattered, dusty sheet. He had found it on one of his earlier explorations of the palace, looking for useful trinkets or things to steal and sell to the tourists.

“What is this?” Juno asks, coming to stand at Peter’s shoulder. He still sounds suspicious. Peter tries not to think about the way he suddenly wants this lady to trust him, or why.

“What if I told you,” Peter says, and dramatically yanks away the fabric shrouding the life-size portrait of the Steel twins, so that Juno stands face to face with a visage of the Princess Andromeda. It’s a spitting image, if Juno were a decade younger and unscarred, with both eyes rather than a patch strapped across his face.

“What if I told you we think we know who you were?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find my perpetually angsty ass on [tumblr](https://zannolin.tumblr.com/), [twitter](https://twitter.com/zannolin), and [instagram](https://www.instagram.com/zannolin/)!

**Author's Note:**

> Find my perpetually angsty ass on [tumblr](https://zannolin.tumblr.com/), [twitter](https://twitter.com/zannolin), and [instagram](https://www.instagram.com/zannolin/)!


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